Just Another Nightmare
by melliemellie
Summary: "With her hand tucked into the sleeve cuff, she pressed it against her mouth to muffle any sound that might inadvertently escape her quivering lips. Sound wouldn't help. She needed quiet. With all the exertion of a man trying to move a train, she willed her body to calm down. It wasn't real, she told herself. Just another nightmare." AU. T for now, but might become M later on.
1. Chapter 1

**Just Another Nightmare**

**Author's note: **So, this story basically came to me one day when I was bored and an idea ran through my mind. I'm not entirely sure where this story will be going, or what will be happening and I don't even know what genre it'll end up being, so please do bear with me. I think it'll follow some of the basic plot lines from the two (almost three!) series' and I welcome any suggestions and hope you enjoy :)

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Chapter One

_Shouts. _

_Screams. _

_Clawing. _

_Everything moves in a blur, as images fly past your eyes._

_Sight, sound, touch; every sense is assaulted and your nerves are aflame with terror._

_The flashes of vision are mere milliseconds long, but each one imbeds itself irrevocably in the mind._

_There's a room, bursts of light and an air of dread choking the oxygen from your lungs._

_Someone is trying to get you, trying to grab hold of you and you're fighting with every last inch of strength you possess. _

_But they're stronger. _

_Much stronger than you._

_They are pinning you down, with very little effort, despite the fact that you are thrashing with all your might. _

_There has to be a way out and you desperately want to find it, but you can't afford to be distracted for too long; a fraction of a second will be all it takes for the fight to be over._

_You try to move a limb-an arm, leg, anything-to prize some space between the pair of you, but this person knows what they're doing far too well._

_They've done it before._

_The first time hurt less, because you fought less, unaware of what was really going to happen._

_That isn't the case this time._

_You know exactly what will happen and how awful you are going to feel afterwards._

_And you're terrified._

_Not of the act itself-although that scares the Hell out of you-but of the moment just before it all begins, the moment an indelible image is planted into your brain._

_The image that will haunt your dreams forever._

_And it comes far sooner than you want, although a thousand years would still be too soon to see such a thing._

_You see it._

_You scream._

The drumming rolled through her veins, as her heart hammered wildly against her chest and she bolted upright in the bed. The darkness was overwhelming and it did nothing to remove the visage from her eyes. The nightmare tormenting her sleep had chased her into wakefulness and it wouldn't let her be. She needed light; something for her pupils to focus on that wasn't…that wasn't…

In sheer bloody panic, the young woman scrambled off the bed, crashing to the floor in a tangle of clothing and sheets, before scurrying along the thin carpet towards the wall. Her outstretched hands collided with the cool, solid surface and she clambered to her feet, her left palm gliding upwards until it met something plastic and square. With trembling fingers, she flipped a switch and harsh amber light bathed the room.

Her frantic eyes scanned every nook and cranny of that room, wishing away any hints of shadow that might be lurking nearby. The drumming continued and the rushing of blood roared in her ears, but she couldn't relax until she had taken in every last inch of her surroundings. From the dishevelled bed, to the small pile of clean clothing she had yet to put away, she catalogued each item she saw, until enough time had passed for her to distance herself from that awful nightmare.

Her breath came in sharp gasps and she forced herself to start breathing properly.

_Deep breath in, hold and release._

She repeated the exercise several times and the waterworks didn't start until the fourth repetition. As the tears filled her eyes and began spilling down her cheeks, she suddenly felt as though she was made of lead and, with her back pressed firmly against the wall, slid down to the floor, her backside landing with a quiet thud.

With her hand tucked into the sleeve cuff, she pressed it against her mouth to muffle any sound that might inadvertently escape her quivering lips. Sound wouldn't help. She needed quiet. With all the exertion of a man trying to move a train, she willed her body to calm down. _It wasn't real, _she told herself. _Just another nightmare. _

Repeating the mantra to herself over and over, her heartbeat gradually decreased to a more acceptable rhythm and the tears eventually subsided, until all that was left was a bad memory and silence. Silence was good; silence was calm; silence meant _nothing_ was happening. _Nothing_ was far better than _something_, because _something_ had the potential to be bad. _Nothing _meant the absence of everything-the good and the bad-and she would rather miss the good, if experiencing it meant risking the bad.

Apparently, this was progress. She didn't scream anymore. Didn't break anything during her desperate scramble for a light source and no longer resorted to the one means of distraction that had ended up isolating her from the world for months.

But she needed a distraction; always did during times such as these. A trail of linen ran from her feet, over to the dishevelled bed and she found the first prospect for the diversion she so urgently sought. Getting to her feet, she started gathering the bedding into her arms, before returning to the bed in order to tidy it.

She didn't rush, as that would have meant having to find the next task sooner. Glancing briefly at the alarm clock on her bedside table, she saw that it was a little past three thirty in the morning. Any normal person would have climbed back into bed and tried to retrieve the sleep they had lost, but she wasn't normal; people with far better qualifications had told her so.

It wasn't until daylight started to filter through the small join between the curtains that she was finally capable of allowing the briefest trickle of relief to filter through her limbs. Daylight, like silence, was a comfort. Everything was clear in the daylight, leaving no room for interpretation by the imagination.

The curtains were opened, but the electric light remained on until the day had fully dawned. One shower, several articles of clothing and a cup of coffee later, she was fit to be seen in public, but didn't venture out just yet. Instead, she sat in the chair by the window, staring down at the street below, watching as the empty concrete was gradually filled with moving bodies and vehicles.

As was common practice during the early mornings, she passed the time by playing a game of guessing the occupation or purpose of each passer-by. Most were faceless, anonymous people that failed to strike any chord of interest within her whatsoever, even though many habitually walked past her bedsit each morning. However, there was always the odd person that caught her eye and she found herself creating the most elaborate biographies for them.

One such person was striding past at that very moment. The main reason she remembered him was because of the article of clothing he religiously wore every single day. It wasn't a particularly spectacular garment, although its stark darkness did stand out remarkably against the pale blandness of the city, but it was often said that confidence was key to carrying off a look and this man had it in spades. He didn't strike her as particularly cocky, but there was a determination to his walk that brokered no argument. The garment in question was a calf length coat and, coupled with dark chin length curls, he had the air of a dandy about him. All he needed was a top hat and he could have easily been a cast member of any Jane Austen adaptation.

She would have loved to have known who he was and what he did, but she was also reluctant to remove the mystery, afraid he could be just another average person, with an average life. She didn't want average-she had more than enough herself-she wanted something remarkable. Unfortunately, remarkable was hard to come by when you spent your life cooped up indoors.

A hum broke through her reverie and looking at the phone on the table a short stretch away, she saw the screen light up. Retrieving the item, she unlocked the phone in order to silence the alarm. A thrill of nervousness danced around her stomach and she cursed the alarm for reminding her of where she had to be in an hour.

Checking the contents of the mug in her hands, she lamented its emptiness and, with a groan, decided to leave her spot by the window and see if the contents of the fridge or cupboards could tempt her to eat. They couldn't. The next twenty minutes were filled with her slowly gathering the necessary items for her latest foray into the outside world.

Six months. That's how long it had been since she last set foot in St Bartholomew's Hospital. A lot had happened between then and the current day and she didn't even feel like the same person who had entered the building all that time ago. Nausea threatened the prospect of her making a spectacle of herself in the street, but she valiantly fought to maintain her dignity. She was _not_ going to be sick in front of the hospital. That would hardly have been conducive to getting her job back.

It was a very large building, filled with identical corridors and rooms that a stranger would easily get lost in were it not for the large signs hanging from the ceilings. She didn't need such directions. Before her retreat from humanity half a year ago, she had spent four years traversing the cold walkways and, doing so once again made her feel as though she had never left. Without missing a step, the young woman marched towards the offices of Human Resources, her pulse gaining momentum with each step. There was no reason for her to be so anxious, she knew, but it didn't stop her wanting to get the day over and done with.

"Molly?"

A masculine voice seized her attention and she turned to see a very familiar face a few yards down the corridor. After a second of ensuring he hadn't mistaken her identity, the middle aged man advanced towards her, a wide smile spreading across his face.

"I thought I recognised you," he said in the broad Geordie accent which years of living in London had failed to eradicate.

"M-Mike," Molly replied, nervousness causing her words to stutter. "Hi."

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" he remarked, his hands resting in the pockets of his white coat, as beady brown eyes studied her through tortoiseshell rimmed glasses.

Mike Stamford was the sort of man the term "portly" had been created for. He wasn't particularly tall, only a few inches higher than Molly, with a round face and dimples adorning each cheek. There was an aura of calm and kindliness to him, which she had always been drawn to, but beneath the friendly, unassuming exterior laid a man not to be trifled with. He'd been one of a very small number of people who had made an effort to express genuine concern after she left St Bart's, although she had never responded to his calls or texts. She knew she'd have to make it up to him somehow.

"Um, yes, it has," she said, beginning to twiddle her fingers to keep herself calm. Six months without regular human interaction had made her already clumsy social skills even rustier.

"How are you?" he asked, that genuine concern showing in his expression.

"I'm okay," Molly answered, trying her very best to sound genuine. It wasn't a total lie, as she was definitely a lot better than before, but still very far from _okay_. "Feeling much better now."

"Good, good," he said and her attempts seemed to have been successful. "And what brings you here today? Are you planning to come back soon?"

"Well, that all depends on Derek, I supppose." Molly threw a glance over her shoulder at the door a few spaces behind her. "But, if all goes well, I should be back in a matter of weeks."

"That's great news," he said, his smile widening once again. "You've _definitely_ been missed. No offence to the lad covering you, but he doesn't have your skills with paperwork."

Molly managed to crack a smile at his comment and a prickling in the back of her eyes proved how much his enthusiasm meant to her. She hadn't seen Mike Stamford-or anyone else, for that matter-since her "episode" and the reaction to her return was probably her biggest concern. She wasn't sure what sort of gossip had been flying around since her departure and didn't know if her return would be a welcome one, but at least one person seemed glad to have her back.

"Well, I won't keep you," Mike continued. "My pupils await, annoying little buggers," he chuckled. "And I'm sure Derek will have no problems with you coming back. I look forward to seeing you bring some colour back into the place."

Molly couldn't do much more than smile and blush at his words in return and he took a step closer, his hand reaching out to rest on her arm. It took all of Molly's resolve not to flinch and shy away from the touch, but she managed to restrain herself to a small twitch when his palm connected with her bicep.

"Remember," he said, his voice lowering and eyes meeting hers. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask, alright?"

"Okay," she replied, nodding and, regrettably, counting the seconds until he ceased physical contact. It was nothing personal, but touch wasn't something she particularly craved. She had to stop herself audibly sighing when his hand eventually dropped from her arm.

"I'll see you soon, Molly."

Mike turned to walk away, but after a few paces, she called out to him and he spun to face her again.

"I…um…" she stammered again, unsure of how to word what she wanted to say, but ploughed forward regardless, needing to get her thoughts aired. The twiddling of her fingers increased. "I got the, um, messages that you sent. I know I didn't reply and I'm sorry about that, but I want you to know that I did get them and, y'know, appreciate your concern."

Mike remained silent, watching her for a short while, an unreadable expression on his face. "Don't mention it," he eventually replied. "See you later."

With a last smile and wave goodbye, he continued walking away down the corridor and Molly watched his retreat, until he passed through the double doors that would conceal him from sight. The prickling behind her eyes increased, until a wave of moisture soaked them and relieved tears threatened to fall from her lashes. She held them back and wiped her eyes dry, before taking a couple of deep breaths.

Once suitably composed, Molly turned and continued towards HR, scared shitless and in no way ready to discover her fate.

Almost an hour later, Molly Hooper exited St Bartholomew's with a mixture of elation and trepidation. In two Mondays' time, she was to resume her position as a pathologist at the hospital. Derek had read through her latest psychiatric reports, as well as had a long, detailed discussion with her, regarding the possibility of her returning to work. It had taken quite a lot out of her, but she reckoned it could have been the exhaustion following prolonged exposure to the adrenaline that had been coursing through her body for the past few hours. Being up at three am was also a strong contributing factor.

After a few breaths of fresh air, or as fresh as London air could get, Molly felt her pocket vibrate and fished out her phone, seeing the screen light up. Unlocking the device, she read through the text message she had just received.

**Supposed to be nice weather today. Fancy the park instead of the office?**

There was no name at the end of the message, but it wasn't necessary. She knew the identity of the sender very well, as they had been her one regular human contact for the past six months. Considering the proposal, she decided to check the weather for herself, before answering. Apparently the sender of the text was correct; it was going to be a beautiful day. Another moment of contemplation and she replied.

**Sure. Where are we meeting?**

It was a couple of minutes before the reply came through.

**By the Pavilion Café. We can either stay there or head somewhere else.**

She agreed, before returning the phone to her pocket and heading for Victoria Park.

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**A/N: **So there we are! Just to let you know, some of the character's backgrounds will be pretty AU, so consider it a warning for those who aren't into that sort of thing. Hope you all enjoyed and I'll update as soon as I can :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: **Hey, everyone. Thanks for all the follows and review so far :)

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Chapter Two

"Didn't fancy sitting inside, then?"

Molly, sitting on a wooden bench, looked up at the man stood before her.

"Not really," she replied, holding out a cardboard cup of hot coffee as a way of greeting.

"Ah, cheers," he said with a smile, quickly checking the empty portion of the bench, before sitting himself beside her. He was a little awkward with his movements, what with the walking stick and all, but it tended not to hamper his mobility too much.

After relinquishing her hold on the coffee cup to him, Molly clutched her own receptacle with both hands, relishing its warmth. Although the weather app had predicted a beautiful day, it hadn't mentioned how chilly it would be, especially not in the shade. John Watson seemed not to share the opinion, though, as all he wore on his torso was a thin jacket over a checked shirt. She tried not to be too jealous of him; after all, it wasn't his fault that she felt the cold so easily. Looking around at passersby, she discovered that she was one of only a very few people wearing jumpers beneath their jackets or coats.

For several minutes, they sat together in easy silence, as each blew and sipped their beverages, before something solid dropped into Molly's lap. She almost spilled her drink in surprise and plucked the object from her legs, holding it up for inspection. It was a Nutri-Grain bar and Molly's eyes looked up to meet John's gaze.

"I'm assuming you haven't had breakfast," he remarked with a mildly reprimanding expression.

Molly simply rolled her eyes in reply, before begrudgingly setting the half empty cup aside. Although she didn't feel particularly hungry, she knew he wouldn't let her leave his sight until the entire bar had been eaten, so she complied, chewing her way through it as quickly as possible in order to get the ordeal over and done with. It wasn't that she didn't eat, she just tended not to do so until the afternoon or even evening. She could never force down a meal first thing; the dreams always affected her too much to hold anything down for very long.

John remained quiet as she ate, his patience in no way forced or making her feel uncomfortable. He was always good with that, being one of the few people who could actually listen to someone without making them feel like too much of an imposition. If he'd gone down the route of treating mental illness, rather than physical, she reckoned he could have been an exceptional psychiatrist. Unfortunately, even if he _had _become a head doctor, the man would have only fit the saying that therapists were as crazy as their patients, because John had a few mental issues of his own to sort out.

It was how he and Molly had first met, just less than six months ago. As part of her rehabilitation, she was asked to participate in a session of group therapy. It was an idea her therapist, Ella Thompson had wanted to try and she'd already recruited a few other patients. Molly was unwilling and sceptical at first, but eventually got talked into it and started attending. John hadn't been at the first session and, after five minutes, Molly had felt like bolting from the room, but she made herself stay the entire hour, as each of the five patients sat in a circle and introduced themselves. In the end, it hadn't been all that bad and Molly felt a little more enthusiastic about attending the next session.

John came the second time and she saw straight away that his reluctance to participate far exceeded hers. Limping heavily, the butt of his walking stick clicking loudly against the linoleum floor as he entered the room, his face was set in a stony expression and Molly had initially been wary of approaching him. With the air of determination he exuded, she wondered how Thompson had managed to even talk him into attending.

Eventually, he introduced himself to Molly and she was amazed at the transformation he went through when he smiled. He looked like a completely different man! No longer threatening or surly, he seemed to shine light into the cold room and she was surprised by his amiability.

The sessions continued each week for the next month and, with every meeting, she got to know a little more about Doctor John Watson. She discovered that he was a fully qualified physician, who'd served in the army until recently, when a gunshot wound forced him to return to England. Molly had initially assumed the injury was the cause for his limp, until further study made her suspect otherwise. She kept her observations as subtle as possible and never questioned him about it, as they still hadn't got to know each other very well by that point.

During the second month, signs that sessions would soon come to an end began to show, as a couple of the patients started arriving late or failed to even show up. If she was honest, Molly's only motivation for going was to see John, as she had come to enjoy his company and, when Thompson eventually called an end to the group therapy, it saddened Molly to think she probably wouldn't see him again. Luckily, one of the other patients, Mark, had contacted the other members to see if any were interested in still meeting up weekly to chat. Although she'd never really spoken to him much, Molly had no issue with the man, so agreed and was both surprised and delighted when she discovered John had agreed too.

For the next few months, the trio would meet on a regular basis and it had quickly left the realms of therapy, to become a simple exercise in socialising-something Molly hadn't even realised she missed until then. They'd meet for lunch or coffee and discuss all manner of things and it was during those moments that, for the first time in a _very_ long time, Molly felt something akin to human again.

Due to relocation to Manchester with his family, Mark eventually left the group, leaving just Molly and John, but it didn't seem to bother either of them. They still found plenty to talk about, especially when they discovered they both knew Mike Stamford and had trained at St Bart's. It became a common occurrence for them to meet up after therapy sessions, often to compare notes and laugh at one another's insanity, each knowing they could do so without the other's judgement.

Today was one of those days.

"She wants me to start a blog," he said, his voice carrying all the derision his face projected. He had a very expressive face, one that revealed pretty much every emotion the man was going through. "Thinks it'll help me better adjust to "civilian life"."

"She said the same to me," Molly chuckled, amused by his semi impression of their mutual therapist. "She reckoned it'd be a good emotional outlet for me."

"I wonder if she has one," he mused. "Since she's apparently so fond of them. I might ask her next time."

"Are you going to do it?" Molly asked, gulping down the last of her drink.

John sighed. "Dunno. Suppose I'd better try it, at least. The only problem-and I told her this-is that you need something to write a blog about and nothing ever happens to me."

"You couldn't write about your time in the army?" she suggested, but his look told her that wasn't an option he favoured.

"I'd rather not become the latest "victim" to burden the internet," he replied.

Molly could understand that. The reasons behind her therapy weren't things she particularly wanted to write about, either. Seeing the downward spiral the conversation was starting to send his mood, she decided to switch topic.

"How's the flat hunt going?"

Her tactic had worked, as the corners of his mouth twitched in a small grin. "Funny you should ask," he said. "Because I'm due to look at one tomorrow."

"Oh, really? You managed to find one you can afford, then?"

"Well, it's a flat share, so I'll be living with someone else," he explained. "Mike recommended the bloke to me, but he seems a bit…_odd_." An expression crossed his features that Molly couldn't quite decipher, but it passed as quickly as it had arrived, to be replaced with a proper smile. "Still, beggars can't be choosers, eh?"

"I'm sure he wouldn't have set you up with a total nutcase," she reassured. "You'll have to let me know how it goes. Where's the flat?"

"Baker Street. To be honest, even with a flat share, I don't know if I'll be able to afford it."

"Well, good luck," Molly offered, to which his smile widened.

"What about you?" he queried.

"Well, today I had my interview at the hospital."

"Yes, you did," he commented, his torso shifting a little to face her more. "How did it go?"

"I return to work in a fortnight."

"Congratulations," he quietly cheered. "And you're ready for it?"

"Yeah," Molly answered, after a moment of consideration. "I mean, I _think_ so. I can't spend the rest of my life rotting away in a crummy bedsit. I need something to occupy my time and, hopefully, it'll provide a good distraction from…other things."

"Still not sleeping well, then?"

"It's getting better," she said, trying not to think of the nightmare that had forced her out of bed at stupid o' clock. "But work will give me something to focus on, something _worthwhile _to do each day."

It was John's turn to nod in understanding. He'd told her once about the troubles he sometimes had sleeping and it was another notch on the chart of their similarities, which made Molly feel far more at ease talking with him, than pretty much anyone else-even her therapist-at times.

"Are you job hunting yet?" she asked.

"If this flat share goes through," he began. "I'll need to settle there first, but, after that, definitely."

"What sort of thing are you thinking?"

"Probably locum work or something. Maybe even a permanent position as a GP. Who knows?" he threw yet another grin her way. "We'll have to see what life throws at us."

Molly smiled back and picked up her empty coffee cup to hold aloft between them. John mirrored her actions.

"To whatever life throws at us," she declared.

"And blogs," John added.

They both laughed, as the cups collided with a soft tap.

**0**

Molly felt an unusual sense of purpose in the days that followed. Now that she had her job back, she was no longer wandering aimlessly through each day, without a clue of what would come next. Pretty soon, she would have a _reason _to get up each day and there had been no negative responses to her news so far. She wondered how much might have changed during her absence and the worry that she might have forgotten what to do lingered at the back of her mind, although she proceeded to spend numerous hours each day pouring through all her old books that focused on her line of work.

A week before her start date, Molly decided to assess the contents of her wardrobe and found it severely lacking. It was the first time she'd done it in almost a year and the thing she noticed immediately was that all of her old favourites-the brightly coloured knitwear and heavily decorated blouses-had all been pushed to the back, making way for sombre blues, greys and black. The cut of the fabrics she'd worn more recently had taken a drastic turn for the unflattering, too, with shapeless jumpers, tops and trousers covering the body of someone who clearly felt they had no reason to make an effort anymore.

_Well,_ she thought to herself. _We won't be able to get away with that anymore, will we? _The sudden fatigue that hit her the moment she thought about making an effort with her appearance was palpable and she was taken back to a time when the highlight of Molly Hooper's day had been deciding what to wear or, especially, how to style her long hair. That had been a particularly pleasing hobby for her, as she'd always considered her hair to be her best feature. Many a woman had professed their envy at how thick and healthy it always appeared to be. Currently, said hair was scraped back in a lazy ponytail and, whilst as healthy as it had ever been, it lacked the life it once had-much like the woman herself.

By that point, Molly decided to walk away from the wardrobe and do a little house (or bedsit) work, before her reminiscence depressed her any further.

With each passing day, the small ball of nerves that had developed in her stomach after the meeting at St Bart's steadily grew. By the time the second Sunday had arrived, her pulse was racing continuously and she found it impossible to remain still. Her home had never looked so spotless. It didn't help that sleep had been particularly evasive the past few nights and Molly didn't cope well with insomnia. In the end, she was forced to buy some sleeping tablets from the local pharmacy, just to provide her body with some much needed rest. It wouldn't do for her to have another breakdown on her first day back.

When Monday morning arrived, Molly spent a lot of it in the bathroom. The nerves had reached their peak and saw fit to purge themselves from her body. When she eventually felt able to go half an hour without vomiting, she began readying herself for work. At first, she had considered unearthing some of the more colourful items of clothing she'd abandoned, but, as the cherry patterned blouse was removed from its hanger, she knew it'd feel completely wrong. It'd be too false, like forcing cheer upon herself. It would've been the same as stuffing two rolls of toilet paper down her bra to give the illusion of cleavage she didn't possess. Nobody would fall for it.

In the end, she chose a smarter version of her current everyday self, but did manage to coerce herself into doing something presentable with her hair. Using tools that had been stored away for far too long, Molly eventually fashioned her hair into a large bun at the back of her head. It was nothing too outlandish, but gave her the feeling of making an effort for a change.

The sleepless nights had predictably done absolutely no favours for her face and she was resigned to putting a thin layer of makeup on to try and hide the dark circles around her eyes. There would be enough gossip about her flying around the office and she didn't want to fuel the rumours by turning up looking like the product of a zombie apocalypse.

By eight o' clock, Molly Hooper was ready for work.

And terrified.

**0**

Joseph Cornwell was assigned to help facilitate Molly's transition back into work and she was doing all she could to politely ignore his condescension. It was surprisingly easy. She'd never really liked him, but, for the sake of an easy life, remained civil. In fact, she'd hidden her dislike so well that she was sure he was absolutely oblivious to it and she didn't know if that was necessarily a good or bad thing.

"Well, Molly," Joseph said, with a patronising grin that a bolder woman would have wanted to slap right off his face. "I don't think you'll need me with you for much longer, will you?"

She simply smiled in reply, feeling like a toddler being praised for learning to use a potty.

"I should warn you, though," he continued, his voice suddenly turning serious. "We've acquired a visitor in the last few months."

"Oh?" Molly tried to sound interested, she really did, but it was hard to do when she'd spent the majority of the day tuning out whenever he spoke.

"Yeah, I think he's something to do with the police. Doesn't have a badge, though."

She couldn't quite understand his warning. They worked in a morgue; of course police officers would visit.

"The only reason I'm warning you is because he's a bit…well…" He spent a moment searching for the correct term. "The word arsehole has been thrown around."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "If he's that bad, why don't you report him or something?"

"Falls on deaf ears," Joseph complained. "He's clearly got connections somewhere."

Molly considered the information briefly, as she continued working and found herself wondering who the man he referred to could be. Anyone who annoyed Joseph was on to a good start in her estimations and she chose to reserve judgement until she met the man herself.

That meeting happened far sooner than she could have predicted.

For most of the first day, she and Joseph had worked together on whatever bodies needed assessing, but, by the afternoon, she was allowed an hour or two of respite, by leaving him in order to catalogue a series of samples that had been left in the lab. Just as she was finishing up the paperwork, the double doors swung open and authoritative footfalls signalled a determined entrance. Molly assumed it was Joseph and looked up, only to be left gobsmacked by what she saw.

It was him! The dandy! There, clad in dark coat and chin length curls, was the man she had watched walk by her window almost every day for the past few months. Mouth agape, her gaze followed him as he unwound the blue scarf from around his neck, having yet to even acknowledge her presence. He was there, in _her _hospital, entering _her _lab. _Is he a new member of staff? _The question remained in her brain, as she was still too busy gawping to direct the question his way.

Still refusing to offer an acknowledgement, the stranger started firing requests in a voice which suggested he belonged there and that everyone else's presence was merely to facilitate his needs.

"Afternoon," he said, shrugging the coat off his shoulders and hanging it on the coat stand near the door. His back was to Molly, so he was unable to see the blatant astonishment on her face. "I'll need a microscope, some Petri dishes, a blow torch, two test tubes and silence, if you don't mind. Oh, and the results from yesterday's soil samples would be marvellous. Who are you?"

All of this was said in one breath and at a speed that Molly's brain failed to match. She still hadn't recovered from her shock and was left simply scrambling mentally for some means of reply. Her lack of response failed to encourage any real reaction from him, as he moved on to the next question.

"Where is Cornwell?" he demanded, almost looking put out that her colleague wasn't present.

Still, Molly was unable to speak, save for a couple of stammered half-words, which seemed to annoy the man now stood before her. He was tall in a looming sort of way, with pale skin that provided a sharp contrast to the dark hair crowning his head. His eyes were a piercing shade of teal that seemed to intensely scrutinise everything their gaze came into contact with, making her feel a bit like a particle being viewed through a microscopic lens.

"For the sake of London, I do hope your skills at pathology are better than your attempts at speech."

That remark managed to snap some form of sense back into Molly and she attempted to reply in a small, uncertain voice, but his focus had already shifted.

"I need those items immediately," he stated, turning his back to her and settling at the counter, where a microscope was already set up.

If this was the man Joseph had spoken of, she was starting to see why her colleague disliked him, but Molly was still too surprised and, frankly, _fascinated _to be annoyed by his rudeness. She gathered the items he had asked for, placing them carefully beside him on the counter. He had a couple of small clear plastic bags in his left hand and she wondered what he might have inside that required such investigation.

She was about to walk away and continue her work in the silence he desired, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. In the distant part of her mind was that fear she'd always had of the people she saw in the street turning out to be boring, but there was something about The Dandy (that was going to be his title until she learnt his actual name) that warranted further investigation. Steeling her resolve, she finally spoke.

"Um," she began, in probably the least intelligent way possible. "Joseph mentioned that a…well, I guess a detective or someone to do with the police-"

"I did ask for silence," he interjected, without even looking up. "And since you've complied with my other requests so efficiently, as well as demonstrated your obvious lack of conversational skill, I would appreciate it if you kindly stopped speaking."

For the first time that Molly could ever remember, she found herself actually agreeing with Joseph on something; The Dandy really was an arsehole. As usual, she opted for an easy life and simply let him be, going back to the samples she had almost finished with. Unfortunately, no matter how much of a knob he presented himself as, Molly couldn't keep her eyes from returning to him. She wondered if he was consciously aware of how rude he was being or if he simply lacked any knowledge of social etiquette. In a way, although she bore the brunt of his discourtesy, it wasn't necessarily a personal thing, so she could afford to see some humour in it. She'd never met anyone so relaxed with speaking their mind before. It was tempting to call Joseph in, simply to see a moment of interaction between him and The Dandy, but she refrained from doing so. No point in antagonising the bizarre man and it would make a nice change not having to listen to Joseph's endless condescension.

She settled herself to continue the work The Dandy's entrance had interrupted, but, just as she had picked up her biro, another request was thrown her way.

"Where are those soil sample results?"

Well, at least she wasn't going to get bored.

* * *

**A/N: **I'd like to know what people think of Sherlock and John's introductions, as I want them to remain as in-character as possible. I hope you enjoyed the chapter and I'll have the next update posted soon :)

Merry Christmas, everyone!


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: **Hey everyone. Hope you all had a good Christmas and are planning a happy new year. Personally, my new year will be spent indoors with my little one, eagerly awaiting Sherlock series three!

* * *

Chapter three

Two Mondays ago, Molly Hooper was preparing herself for a return to civilisation and (hopefully) sanity. By the start of her third week back at work, she found that only one of those two was being achieved, albeit barely. Settling back into the Monday to Friday, nine to five routine (which could easily become six, seven or eight) wasn't as hard as she'd expected and most of her fears of returning to St. Bart's had been largely unrealised; either people decided not to gossip within her range of hearing, or her return was of little concern to anyone else. Sadly, the sanity she craved remained annoyingly out of reach.

There were several things keeping it at bay. Firstly, work had done very little to improve her sleeping habits. At most, she'd gained an hour each night if she was lucky and the need for distraction was the sole motivation for her remaining at the hospital for so long after most shifts. Secondly, work schedules had impacted on her barely existent social life. With her rota and whatever-it-was John had started doing, their weekly get-togethers were postponed until both found a moment of free time that coincided. They still contacted through text messages, each asking how the other was doing, but it didn't feel the same to her. He was one of the only people who didn't reduce her to a socially awkward mess and the absence of decent face-to-face conversation affected her far more than she'd ever expected.

Unfortunately, the void in her social life had in no way whatsoever been filled by the man who so brazenly waltzed into her lab during her first day back. From the moment she met Sherlock Holmes, Molly had a burning desire to discover all she could about the Consulting Detective-a title he'd somewhat proudly declared to her that same day, when she'd dared to enquire, although the pride was buried beneath a veneer of practised nonchalance. That veneer tended to coat much of his personality and she had added _aloof_ to the (often insulting) adjectives others used to describe him.

In all honesty, despite Sherlock's often abrasive personality, Molly couldn't find it within herself to dislike him. For a start, they shared a mutual love of silence and, whenever he was around, she was sure to be blessed with at least a few hours of peace to carry out her work. Another plus was that his presence often kept Joseph's at bay. The mysterious man also proved to be one of the greatest sources of distraction she had found in recent years. Whatever fears she'd had about him being boring were unnecessary, as he proved to be anything but, especially when she'd been offered a glimpse into the workings of his mind. He and Lestrade (one of the friendlier detectives at Scotland Yard) had visited the morgue a week ago, investigating an apparently baffling double suicide and, in less than a minute of examining the corpses Molly pulled out for them, Sherlock had managed to list all the reasons why it was actually a murder inquiry they dealt with. The words fell from his lips at breakneck speed and she couldn't even remember half of what he'd said, but it had all been proven correct and she wanted to know how in the Hell he managed to do it.

He was cloaked in mystery and she would have loved nothing more than to peer within the folds. The few attempts she'd made at initiating conversation had mostly failed, with him either interrupting to change the subject or blanking her completely. He was a conundrum she desperately wished to solve, but it was proving a difficult task and desperation was forcing her to take more extreme measures.

Currently, the conundrum was vigorously beating a corpse to within an inch of it's…hmm; _life_ probably wasn't the best word to use. Molly watched through a window, as Sherlock repeatedly struck the body with a riding crop, trying to remember if she ever received a similar request from any other detective that had visited the morgue over the years. She hadn't, which only served to increase her curiosity about the man. She wondered what the purpose of such a task was, but hadn't had chance to ask. Conversing was not exactly a hobby of his. She could have started to take it personally, had she not witnessed him treat her colleagues the same way. In fact, he was far nicer to her than some other people she worked with.

The snap of the crop hitting flesh echoed throughout the chamber, as Molly entered, rubbing her lips with her trusty ChapStick. She really needed to stop biting them. The purpose for her interruption was to try and actually gain his attention on her own terms for once. Subtlety was either over his head or he simply didn't respond to it and she intended to forgo the hesitant efforts at futile conversation. His work appeared to engross him far too much, so she hoped he might be more responsive away from it. With a plan set in her mind, Molly forced what little confidence she could muster into her stride. Whether by coincidence or due to the interruption, Sherlock's assault had ceased and he was taking a moment to recover his breath; he'd really been going at it and she could see a light sheen of sweat on his face. Stopping at the foot of the table, she decided to lead into her proposal with a bit of light humour.

"Bad day, was it?"

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes," he responded, completely ignoring her comment, as per usual. "A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

"Okay," she replied, noting that humour clearly wasn't the way to go where Sherlock was concerned. _Here goes nothing_, she thought, as she got ready to voice her suggestion. "Listen," she began, her fingers resorting to twiddling as they always did when she was nervous. She wanted to ask him in a way that didn't necessarily sound like she was asking him on a date. She had absolutely _no _interest in gaining a boyfriend. "I was wondering. Maybe later, when you're finished-"

"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before."

Molly was completely taken aback by the question. He barely ever acknowledged her presence unless he wanted something, so how would he possibly notice if she put lipstick on? "Um…no…it's just, um, my ChapStick." She fished the item out of her lab coat pocket and held it up as proof.

His eyes held her for a moment longer, narrowing slightly, before his attention fell back to the small notepad and pen in his hands. "Sorry. You were saying?"

His query had thrown her somewhat off track and she had to gather her thoughts, before continuing her proposal. The words rushed out of her mouth, desperate to be heard before he could cut her off again. "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee-"

"Black, two sugars please. I'll be upstairs." The ghost of a smile graced his lips, before he turned abruptly and left the room.

"Okay."

Molly's response echoed around the chamber, as the door hinges whistled shut and she was left with nothing but a dead body and failure for company. Her fingers stopped twiddling and squeezed together tightly, as though trying to halt the flow of frustration emanating from her body. Molly was never very good at dealing with emotion and she could feel hot tears prickle the backs of her eyeballs. He didn't let her finish. Why wouldn't he _ever_ let her finish? It made her long for an afternoon with John all the more, if only to have a conversation with someone who actually _listened_. Why was it so hard to get people to listen?

A terrible thought crossed her mind then. What if he'd assumed she _was _asking him out and decided to cut her off for fear of having to reject her? He had questioned her makeup, after all and the brief look he gave her afterwards definitely held a hint of suspicion. She mentally retraced the brief interaction, looking for any signs that she had unintentionally given off the wrong signals, but was damned if she could identify them. Flirtation was _not _her area of expertise and she was reminded of why she had chosen to spend the majority of her time surrounded by the dead, rather than the living.

With a huff of resignation and infuriation, Molly, remembering Sherlock's request, checked the time and decided to make the beverage she had offered. As she made her way to the kitchen area where the kettle resided, she took several deep, calming breaths and a sliver of silver began to line the cloud currently hanging over her. It wasn't quite what she had hoped for, but at least Sherlock was still offering a distraction in some way. Her evening was going to be spent researching mental disorders, in the hopes of finding one that might match Sherlock's personality, because she was pretty sure his behaviour wasn't typical. At least, she hoped it wasn't, because, if it was, it might mean that, should John ever decide to cease contact completely, she'd spend the rest of her life as a recluse.

**0**

When Sherlock said he'd be upstairs, Molly knew that he was referring to the laboratory situated on the floor above the morgue. It was always his first stop after visiting the morgue. As she neared the double doors leading to the room, she could already hear his deep, dulcet tones and she wondered which poor soul he might have been berating at that time. He was partway through a sentence when she pushed the door open with her free hand.

"…sense for it to be the brother." Sherlock looked up. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you."

Having only entered the room in the last few seconds, Molly hadn't had time to properly survey her surroundings. However, upon hearing her name spoken aloud, her gaze flew in his direction, just as the head of his companion spun in hers.

"Molly?"

Her step faltered and eyes widened in surprise. "John? Hi!" The shock was instantly replaced by a wide smile and she continued walking towards them. Handing the drink to Sherlock, she stopped beside her friend. "What brings you here?"

"Not a lot," John replied, leaning against the desk with folded arms. "I did wonder if I'd end up seeing you today, though. I've just spoken to Mike."

"Oh, really?" she said and couldn't help but feel the enquiring gaze of the tall man, situated a foot away, fall on each of them. Was he surprised at her sudden fluency of speech? It was remarkable what a friendly face could do for someone's confidence. Her eyes flitted around the lab quickly, noting the absence of hers and John's mutual friend. That meant that it _was _John Sherlock had been talking to. The notion baffled her a little, because, if she was about to discover yet another mutual acquaintance with the former army doctor, the world was definitely becoming far too small. "I haven't had chance to catch up with him much since coming back."

"Well, I think he was hinting at a booze up at some point," John remarked.

Molly winced well humouredly. "Oh dear." A drunk Mike Stamford was certainly good comedic value, but a handful to deal with.

John chuckled. "Yeah, I know. I'm gonna have to wait until my cash flow is better, though. I know he'd offer to foot the bill, but I can't let him do that."

"Good luck telling-"

"Can't your banal chatter wait?"

The sharp question came from the corner of the lab and the pair looked over at a non-too-impressed Sherlock, hunched over a microscope. Molly's sudden warm mood instantly lost its lustre and she was filled with the urge to flee. _He can't help himself, _her mind raged. _He can't let you finish, even when you're not bloody talking to him! _

"Why, is it bothering you?" John asked him, although the glint in his eye told her he already knew it was.

"As fascinating as your social life must be to someone lacking one, a man's freedom _is _at stake."

Sherlock spoke as though they had committed a fatal social faux pas. If ever there was a greater occurrence of pot calling kettle black, Molly had yet to hear of it. His sly dig at her expense brushed against a tender nerve and she did her best not to let it show, but there was no hiding the sudden downturn of her smile. Her eyes fell to the floor and her torso shifted position, ready to lead her out the room. Although she knew (or hoped) the remarks weren't personal, she didn't fancy lingering to bear the brunt of any more, but a sigh stopped her. It came from John and when her eyes moved upwards again, she saw a mild frown creasing his brow.

"Sherlock," he began, his tone irritable. "Do you actually need me here right now?"

"Well," the other man replied. "Until the results from my experiment come through-" Sherlock's focus swivelled on to Molly and she knew he referred to the recent whipping of the unfortunate corpse upstairs. "There is little for anyone to do right now."

Correctly assuming it to be a second remark against Molly, John's frown deepened, but he didn't reply to the cantankerous man, turning his head to face her instead. "Any more of that coffee going?" he asked.

"Erhhm…yes," she answered quietly, her fingers interlacing to allow her thumbs to run circles around one another. "Yes, there is."

"Good. Well, in that case, shall we take our "banal chatter" elsewhere?"

"O-okay," she stammered, a smile tugging at her lips once again. Looking back, she saw that Sherlock had already returned his attention to the microscope and, if time had been a luxury, she would have been able to discern whether it was in fact a sulky expression he wore on his face.

John followed her out of the laboratory, before falling into step beside her.

"Look," he began." I'm really sorry about him." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, referring to Sherlock. "I've only known him a couple of weeks, but it took about five minutes to realise that he's not exactly a people person."

Molly wholeheartedly agreed. "I probably found that out at the same time you did," she said. "I met him on my first day back and, whilst a few words beginning with A were thrown around, amiable wasn't one of them."

John's laughter reverberated off the corridor walls. "Really? I wonder why."

They both laughed together as they reached the stairwell and it was then that Molly realised something was missing. John's limp, to be exact. For the entire time she'd known him, never had he been without the walking stick attached to his right hand, yet, there he was, walking perfectly beside her, without a hint of trouble in his steps. As far as she was aware, John hadn't had any surgery on his leg in the past fortnight and she knew it was impossible to make such a miraculous recovery in such a short space of time. That left Molly wondering about her suspicions of the cause for his limp. Although they'd often discussed aspects of their therapy sessions, his injury had never become a topic of conversation, just as the reason for her mental breakdown hadn't either.

Deciding to leave the issue for the moment, knowing it was something that required a delicate approach, she checked the time on her watch. She had another five minutes before those results Sherlock so desperately wanted were due, so she stopped by the entrance to the morgue, turning to face John. Not everyone was as comfortable with the place as she.

"I'm going to have to quickly get those results," she explained. "Would you rather wait here or do you want to come in?"

"Am I allowed in?" he wondered.

"I'm the only one on duty, so it'll be fine," she reassured.

"Well, sure, but only if it won't get you into trouble."

Molly waved a hand dismissively, before pushing the door open. The temperature difference hit her immediately and, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed by the quick shake of his shoulders that he felt it too. The recipient of Sherlock's harsh beating was still lying uncovered on the table and Molly threw an apologetic grimace John's way.

"Sorry," she said. "It's not a particularly pretty sight."

"Don't worry," he insisted. "I've seen worse…unfortunately."

Over the course of their friendship, John had never gone into particular detail about his time in the army, but, every so often, he'd offer a comment that would allude to some of the things he had faced during his service. She wanted to delve deeper into his history, as it was the reason he had ended up in therapy to begin with, but she refused to do so, preferring any divulgence to be of his own free will.

"Oh, yes, of course," she remarked. "Sorry."

They continued towards the body and she circled the table until she was standing by the body's left side. Sherlock's whipping had lasted for quite a while and the torso showed definite signs of the treatment it had undergone. The corpse had been pretty fresh when Sherlock arrived, so rigor mortis hadn't fully set in and there were small dents all over the skin, where the crop connected with the flesh. Molly moved her face in rather close for the examination and could sense John's curious gaze following hers.

"I'm afraid to ask," he whispered. Something about the dead tended to make people quieter. Rest in Peace and all that, Molly supposed. "But did Sherlock do that?"

Molly grinned. "Yes."

"Okay." Through her lashes, she could see he was bracing himself. "And how did he do it?"

"Riding crop," she replied.

John was silent for a moment and his face remained surprisingly neutral, but his eyes were telling a different story. "Right," he eventually said, slowly and softly. Then he moved his head a little closer to continue speaking. "Just to clarify. When I snuff it, don't let Sherlock near me."

Despite the morbidity of the subject, Molly couldn't stifle the giggle erupting from her lips. It had been a while since she last had cause to laugh and it felt incredible therapeutic. She'd definitely missed him, even if only a couple of weeks had passed. When the chuckling subsided, she continued her study. For the most part, there wasn't very much bruising present on the body at all, which was to be expected. Without blood flow, there was nothing to really cause the bruising. However, just below the left nipple were a few patches of skin decorated a delicate shade of lilac. It wasn't severe and she'd had to look closely to find it, but it was a result nonetheless, for which the Consulting Detective downstairs was waiting.

Heading over to the hanger, she fished in one of her coat pockets and pulled out her phone.

"What was the aim of the…experiment?" John queried, remaining where he was, his gaze still doing its own study of the corpse.

"Well," Molly replied, texting as she returned to John. "He didn't say a lot about it to me. Just said he wanted to know what bruises came up." Once the text was sent, she slipped the phone into the breast pocket of her lab coat. "So, how do you know Sherlock?"

"Remember the flat share?"

Molly nodded.

"It's with him."

For the second time that day, Molly's eyes became as wide as saucers. "Really?" she exclaimed quietly. "You _live _with him?"

"Probably against my better judgement, but yes."

"I imagine you'll want a strong coffee, then?"

John laughed in response and followed her over to the office area, where a small kitchenette was situated. After checking the kettle contained enough water, she grabbed one of the clean cups by the sink.

Footsteps informed her that he had moved to stand beside her, leaning against the counter in much the same pose as when she first saw him in the lab. Again, his lack of physical impediment baffled her and she knew she couldn't keep it in much longer. Although it was sad to admit, an alarm bell was gently chiding in her brain and she didn't want John of all people to end up being someone other than she thought he was. He'd been the one solid thing in her life over the last half a year and she wasn't sure how she'd cope if that solidity crumbled.

Surely he wouldn't have lied about having a limp, because it was so obvious, making it impossible to suddenly discard without anyone noticing. She sincerely hoped it was something to do with his therapy sessions and, unwilling to bear the thought of those doubts festering in her brain for days on end, she steeled her courage and jumped into the deep end.

"John," she began, nervousness creeping up on her again. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on one's point of view) her hands were still occupied with the task of making coffee, so she couldn't start twiddling her fingers.

"Hmm?" he hummed in reply, waiting patiently for the question that took a few heartbeats to arrive.

"I, um…I hope you don't mind me asking, but…" she couldn't keep her eyes from flitting down to his leg.

It didn't require a genius to predict what she was about to ask and John's eyes fell to the floor in front of him, a soft sigh rolling off his tongue. He shifted position, clearly feeling a little awkward and, for a second, Molly wanted to retract her question.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't want to pry-"

"No, no," John cut her off, raising a hand to silence her protests. "It's alright." He straightened up and turned so he was fully facing her, before shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. "I'm surprised you didn't say anything earlier." He let out a quick, rather humourless chuckle. "The limp was…psychosomatic, part of my PTSD. I got wounded in action, but it was nowhere near my leg. That was partly why I got referred to Thompson."

Molly saw the sourness creeping into his expression, as well as the difficulty he had in speaking about it, for which she felt partly responsible and didn't like the guilt such knowledge caused her to feel. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," she insisted. "I know how personal it is."

John's eyes were back on the floor and his face was pensive, but a very small smile curved his lips ever so slightly. Molly offered the silence he needed and used the time to finish his drink. She hoped he'd still accept it. When he finally looked at her again, the gratitude glistened in his irises. Then he tilted his head back until it rested against the cupboard behind him, looked up at the ceiling and let out a deep breath.

"I'm never good at this talking-about-my-feelings lark," he sighed. "I'm Ella Thompson's worst nightmare!"

Molly allowed a smile to come to her face, glad to feel the tension breaking. "Me neither," she concurred, holding the drink out to him; white, no sugar, just as he liked it.

"What a bloody pair we make," John declared, taking the mug from her hands and she couldn't find it within herself to disagree.

"_A right pair of old fuck ups!" _was a particularly memorable description he had given them once and the self-deprecating nature of the sentence did nothing to lessen the fondness she had for it. The relief surging through her veins made her love the phrase even more. He was still the same, still John and no sinister motives were behind the disappearance of his limp. Everything was okay. She kept repeating the mantra, letting it sink into her brain, reassure herself of the dependability that John Watson provided. It may have been dangerous, allowing herself to start relying on one person so heavily, but, right then, she didn't consider the consequences.

A quiet buzzing ran through the air and John pulled out his own phone. Apparently, having received the results of his experiment, Sherlock felt his flat mate's presence was once again required.

"I've got to go," John explained, holding his phone up apologetically. "Are you coming?"

"Afraid not," she said. "I've got stuff to do down here. I'll see you soon, though?" She hadn't meant to phrase it as a question, but there was a part of her wondering if chance meetings were to become the norm for them now. The sensible part of her brain gave her a mental slap, telling her to stop being so clingy; it'd only been a fortnight, after all.

"Definitely," he confirmed, his smile gradually morphing back into its sunnier self. "Things have been pretty hectic for us recently, so we're going to have to elbow in a bit of free time for ourselves. Besides, this place seems to be like a second home for Sherlock, so you might even end up getting sick of the sight of me."

Molly chose to grin in reply, rather than speaking the words running through her mind. If she was honest, they startled her a little, so she decided to discard them from her thoughts completely, before even fully acknowledging them.

John's phone buzzed once more and he rolled his eyes. "He's worse than a nagging old wife!" he grumbled, earning another giggle from Molly.

Thanking her for the drink, he said his goodbyes, before taking the cup with him back upstairs.

Molly moved further into the actual morgue to watch him leave, yet again left alone with nothing but a dead body for company. This time, however, there wasn't a hint of failure in the air and she felt far more content in that moment than she had for quite some time.

* * *

**A/N: **To me, this story is feeling very much a character driven thing, rather than a plot driven one. There _will _be a proper plot, I promise, it'll just take a little time to get there. If anyone is finding the pace of the story boring or has any issues with how the characters are being written so far, please do let me know :)

Thanks for reading and I'll update soon


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: **I want to warn readers that this chapter involves some disturbing topics. It won't be going into graphic detail, but I'm letting you all know in case anyone would rather not read about that sort of thing. If that's the case, then just skip past the section typed in italic :)

* * *

Chapter Four

_It's not real._

_It's not real._

_It's not _REAL_!_

The young woman, hunched up in the corner of the room, rocked back and forth, whilst hands covered her ears to stifle all sound trying to harass them. She was trying to convince her brain that the fabric brushing against her skin _wasn't _a pair of unwelcome hands roaming her body; that the increased heart rate _wasn't _due to the terror of a horrific ordeal she'd just faced; that the disturbing images running through her mind were nothing more than _memories _of the _past_ and that past should have no bearing on her future. She was home, she was alone and she was _safe_.

It took a tremendous amount of convincing, but Molly's body gradually began to accept the facts and she was able to carefully uncurl herself from the tight ball she'd retreated into. Slowly opening her eyes, she scanned the room, finding everything-besides her bed-to be in order. Deciding it would be safe to lower her hands, the silence of the room finally met her ears and she straightened her legs, feeling something tighten around her right foot. A surge of blind panic seized her heart, before she looked down to see a sheet wrapped around her toes, which was immediately removed.

Once the bed was returned to some semblance of normality, Molly checked the time on her mobile. Six am. That wouldn't have been too bad, were it not for the fact that she hadn't actually climbed into bed until two the same morning. She'd have to schedule a visit to a coffee shop into her walk to the tube, as it was going to take a lot of caffeine to get her through the day.

Having woken an hour ahead of her alarm, Molly was able to leisurely get herself ready, spending twice as long in the shower as usual. Wiping the steam from the bathroom mirror, the young woman spent a while simply gazing at her reflection and, for the first time in…well, before the "episode", Molly Hooper really studied herself. The pathologist had never had a stocky build, but it surprised her to realise just how gaunt her face had become. Her cheeks always erred on the slightly chubby side, yet that had all but disappeared in recent times. The direction of the room's lighting caused her cheekbones to throw sharp shadows down the contours of her face and the lack of sleep showed in large, dark circles around the eyes. The worst thing of all was that she knew the perfect remedy for her poor appearance, yet it felt impossible to attain.

Realising that further study probably wouldn't be a good idea, Molly threw her reflection a quick scowl, before proceeding to attack the wet mane of hair atop her head with the paddle brush. Knowing her face was a lost cause, Molly chose to spend her extra time doing something different with her hair. So far, she hadn't tried anything more exciting than a chignon, but, after a moment of consideration, went for a loose braid that hung over her right shoulder. It took some time and several attempts, but, eventually it reached a stage that she was happy with.

With that task completed, Molly prepared the rest of herself for the upcoming day. The patch of sky visible from the window teased with the promise of a sunny day, but the people already milling the streets were clad in jumpers and coats, meaning the temperatures were far from tropical. Molly dressed accordingly and, after a last check of her bag, finally exited the bedsit.

**0**

A mixture of nerves and excitement danced in her stomach, the way it always did before a session with Doctor Thompson. The psychiatrist's office had always been an impressive one and Molly tried to keep the anxiety at bay by preoccupying her mind with examination. The room had a rather peaceful feel to it, despite being located in the heart of London and, of course, Molly fully appreciated its respect of her beloved silence.

She couldn't quite remember when her love affair with quiet had begun, as she'd certainly never lived a peaceful life or come from a quiet home. It did fit in with her somewhat reserved persona, though. This was another thing she couldn't explain. With a mother in possession of a foghorn for a mouth and a younger brother inheriting the trait, Molly certainly didn't earn her mousy nature from either of them. Her father had been slightly more reserved, but never failed to confidently voice his opinions should the occasion call for it. Perhaps, in Molly's case, it was simply a case of her personality accommodating her environment. After all, like everything else, even the limelight had a limit to its capacity.

Thompson returned, letting the door swing shut with a gentle click, before taking the seat opposite her patient. The silence lingered for a moment or two longer, allowing the doctor a moment to assess the woman sat before her. Ella's face had always worn an expression of practised neutrality, which Molly both loved and loathed. Whilst it meant she wouldn't have to endure judgemental looks, it also meant she had no idea what the doctor was thinking.

"I like what you've done with your hair, Molly," Ella began, her soft voice rich and warm.

Molly had always liked the tone of the psychiatrist's voice, which she once admitted by blurting out to the doctor that she'd be good at reading the bedtime stories on the telly. Trying not to cringe at the slightly embarrassing memory, Molly forced herself to concentrate on what was being said.

"Um, thank you," she replied, her cheeks colouring at the unexpected compliment.

"How have you been since I last saw you?"

Molly considered the question, trying to arrange her thoughts into the most appropriate answer. It had been two weeks since their last appointment, so work was all she really had to speak about.

"Working," came her eventual answer. _What an exciting life you lead, Molly Hooper!_ If she'd been alone, the pathologist would have told her brain to shut up.

Ella waited expectantly, but, when nothing further followed the one word answer, she attempted to coax more information out of her. "And how's that been going?"

"Good. Good. I…I've settled back in alright. Everyone's been really nice so far. In fact, I've taken on my full time hours a couple of weeks earlier than originally planned."

"That's excellent," Ella congratulated, a smile spreading across her face. "So, you've had no trouble getting back into the swing of things?" She bowed her head slightly, as she started scribbling in her notepad.

"Not really," Molly confirmed, stretching her neck in an attempt to gaze upon the page being filled with pencil markings.

Molly lost count of the times she'd tried to sneak a peek of that pad of paper, to steal a glimpse of what the doctor really thought of her patient, but the angle and distance had always been against her. Today was no different. Apparently, it was a desire she shared with John, who actually managed to succeed once. He hadn't appreciated what he'd read, though.

"And how has your new schedule impacted on the other aspects of your life?" Ella continued.

Molly knew instantly what the psychiatrist was alluding to, but hoped evasion might steer the conversation towards a more comfortable topic. "It's, um, given me a focus again," Molly replied. "And it's nice having a different set of walls to look at each day."

"And what about at night?"

Molly bit the inside of her cheek. It was always the part of the session that filled her with the most apprehension. Whilst she wanted nothing more than to get it all off her chest, she also hated having to revisit the thoughts that plagued her mind at night time. Sensing the discomfort, Ella kept talking in an attempt to both soothe and encourage.

"I know it was something you were hoping for," she continued. "That a new routine might help your sleeping habits. Has there been any improvement?"

Releasing the skin from between her molars, Molly shrugged her shoulders. "Sort of."

"How?"

"Well…" Molly shifted position slightly, sitting more upright in the hope of imbuing more confidence into her posture than she actually possessed. "I mean…I s'pose I've started sleeping a bit longer each night. I've gained maybe an hour or two." Her eyes fell to the empty cardboard coffee cup resting in the bin.

"That's progress."

Progress. Molly mused over the word. Perhaps it was, if you considered progress to be scrambling out of bed each night, desperate for any source of light to banish the imaginary demons attacking you from the shadows.

"The dreams haven't gone, have they?"

A soft sigh passed Molly's lips. "No." Her eyes focused on the window. There used to be a "for sale" sign on the door of the empty building opposite, but it wasn't there anymore.

Ella nodded. "Are they still the same?"

"Pretty much." It had been a butcher's, back when the therapy first began.

"Pretty much? Does that mean they are changing in some way?"

"Sometimes." It was a shame when the butcher's closed down, as she'd often purchased a small something for lunch, as a personal reward after a good session.

"In what way?" Others might have become frustrated with the slow pace of conversation, but Ella was patient and knew how to deal with people like Molly.

"Less detail." Molly wondered what the shop might become, now that it had been sold.

"That's good to hear."

"But not always." Maybe it would be a clothing shop, or one of those small supermarkets that was popping up on the corner of every street nowadays.

"Sometimes is better than never," Ella declared.

"I still can't sleep afterwards, though." Or maybe it would be a café. There weren't enough of those along that particular street.

"I'm still willing to give you a prescription to help."

"No!" Molly's eyes flew to meet Ella's, a hint of panic flaring within them. It faded as quickly as it had appeared and she turned to look out the window once again. "No…thank you."

"Okay," Ella said, filling in more of the notebook, before placing it, along with the pencil, onto the small table beside her and altering her sitting position slightly. The pathologist glimpsed it in her peripheral vision and that, along with the deep breath taken, made it obvious that a very serious question was about to be aired. "Molly…"

There was a pause and the patient felt her chest get ever so slightly tighter with trepidation.

"We've been running these sessions for over six months now-"

Ella's legs were no longer crossed. Her elbows were resting on her knees and she was leaning forward; not by much, but enough to show she wanted her patient's full attention. Molly felt the panic rising in much the same way as rabbits probably did when faced with a pair of headlights.

"-and, although it has taken time, I've seen some remarkable progress from you and really hope this latest step forward is a sign of better things to come."

_What does she want? What does she want? What does she want?_

"However, I still have some concerns regarding your recovery."

The blood pounded through Molly's veins, as she anticipated the next sentence to exit Ella's mouth. She should have known it would happen eventually; it was inevitable. There was only so long one could avoid talking about the very reason they received therapy in the first place.

"I always said that we would go at whatever pace you felt was comfortable, wait until you felt ready, but I do think it is time we talked about why you're here."

"You already know," Molly insisted in a weak whisper, looking down at the hands clenched tightly together in her lap. There was no finger twiddling, because she wasn't nervous. She was terrified.

"Yes," Ella conceded. "But we've never actually _discussed _it. As far as I'm aware, you haven't spoken to a_nyone_ about it."

"Spoke to the police." It was a pathetic argument, but never let it be said that Molly Hooper went down without out a (lacklustre) fight.

The ghost of a compassionate smile graced Ella's lips. "It's not the same, though, is it?"

"Does it have to be?" There was a hint of desperation in Molly's voice, as she asked the question. Surely Ella could give her just a little more time. Hadn't she said progress was being made? If that was the case, what would talking about the fucking thing do? Her eyes darted over at the clock hanging above the door and despair filled her when she realised the session was far from over.

"It'll be alright, Molly," Ella reassured. "We can take it slowly."

"I don't want to." The quiet plea quivered, as it sailed through the air. At least, it would have if the plea had been spoken aloud.

"Have you ever thought that these dreams may be the result of your refusal to speak about what happened?"

Molly didn't reply. She could feel the tears welling up and wanted so much for them to remain contained within her lashes, but their will far outmatched hers and they rolled silently down her cheeks.

"You can do this," Ella encouraged. Molly didn't believe her.

A sob erupted from the distraught young woman and her hands lifted to press against her eyes, as though trying to quell the flow of emotion and push it back inside.

"Let's at least try. If it really does get too much for you, I promise we will stop."

_Why can't we stop now?! _Molly felt like screaming it at the top of her lungs, but something held her back, something small and buried deeply, but there all the same. Occasionally, that small thing liked to make itself known in the subtlest of ways, which it did at that very moment. That small thing was the part of her psyche that, actually, _did _want to talk about what had happened; that _did _want to offload all the fear, confusion, hatred and regret digging its way into her soul and eroding her bones. It was making her tired and weak, with the constant nightmares and inability to function normally in society. The "I'm-all-better-now" mask she wore was starting to fray at the edges and it was only a matter of time before she fell into a sobbing heap in the middle of a room and got carted off to the nearest loony bin.

Something warm pressed against Molly's bicep and the contact sent the usual alarm bells off in her brain. Whipping her head up, she discovered it was Ella's hand, offering support through what the doctor knew was a difficult time. In Thompson's free hand was a small box of tissues and a thin, trembling hand reached down to pluck a few out of the horizontal hole, situated in the middle of the lid.

"Where shall we start?"

**0**

_It hadn't been expected. Surely it wasn't possible for a person to be that unlucky _twice_? Everything about the day had been completely normal: Get up. Go to work. Come home. Relax with the telly, Toby and a glass or two of wine. A DVD had even been purchased for the occasion. Sadly, the evening didn't go as planned. They say that there are only two certainties in this world: death and taxes and I had chosen the former as the means of my profession. The call came a little after six and I was on my way to St Bart's by half past. Two bodies had come in to the hospital and there was nobody else available to call…well, nobody else with nothing to do on a Saturday night, anyway._

_It had taken a good few hours to get through the basic examinations and the paperwork was filled in as quickly as possible. I may not have had plans, but it didn't mean I wanted to spend the whole night at bloody work. I didn't leave the building until about quarter to ten and very much looked forward to finally watching the film waiting on the coffee table back home. I practically ran to my front door and had barely managed to drop my shoulder bag to the floor when the doorbell rang. Fed up and impatient, I pulled the door open and, upon discovering the identity of my visitor, my skin blazed and my insides froze. _

_He'd found me._

_The man who had almost destroyed my life four years ago had _found _me._

_Somehow, despite the passage of time, a change of address and switching from my father's name to my mother's, he'd tracked me down and there he was, at the foot of my front steps, watching me expectantly. My initial instinct was to slam the door shut and run, before calling the police, but he'd clearly been expecting it because his foot blocked the doorway just as I tried to close it. I kicked at his shoe in the vain hope of dislodging it, but he reached for my wrist and managed to pull me off balance, before shoving me backwards and charging into the flat._

_I was scrambling to my feet, when he clasped a handful of my ponytail and yanked me upright, before slamming me into the nearest wall. My elbow protested in pain, as my left arm was pinned unnaturally against my back. Up until that point, I'd been bucking against his restraint, but the pain forced me to stop. That was when he pressed against me even tighter and whispered in my ear._

_The next hour or so was a haze of terror, noise and pain, as I relived the ordeal forced upon me four years prior. I'd never expected it to happen again and all my efforts of remaining under the radar had been for nought. I'd never hated the legal system more than in that moment. If only he'd been found guilty the first time; if only there had been irrefutable proof, rather than my word against the well thought out manipulations of a smarmy lawyer. If only…if only._

_If only._

_I was left a sobbing, aching, disgusting mess and he left after making me promise I wouldn't tell a soul what happened. If I did, he'd find me again and really make it _hurt_. _

_I promised._

_Of course, the bruises on my face and body weren't the easiest to cover up and the questions quickly came. Right then and there, I had the perfect opportunity to seek help, but cowardice coerced me into fallacy and I pretended it was the result of a violent mugging. It was a sad state of affairs to find yourself in, when you _wished _to have been the victim of such a crime._

_My lies were successful and everyone accepted the story. I was relieved beyond measure that nobody delved further into the matter, seeing the holes in the tale, yet there was also a hint of disappointment. It wouldn't have taken long for me to crack, to spill the truth to a listening ear, but the opportunity never arose. If only someone had tried._

_If only…if only._

**0**

The scene replayed in Molly's head, as she relayed the events of the "mugging" to the attentive psychiatrist. Ella didn't interrupt once or ask any questions. She didn't even write in her notebook. Molly Hooper had the full rapt attention of the dark skinned woman opposite, who accepted the deceit without a shadow of doubt crossing her mind. If she were a spectator, Molly could have felt sorry for the doctor, who believed herself to be the sole recipient of the truth behind her patient's mental instability, yet, in actual fact, was being fed nothing more than lies.

The session ended, Molly went home and, at six o' clock that evening, Ella left her office, believing she had helped a damaged young woman reach a major milestone in her path to recovery. If only she had known how wrong her presumptions were. If only she had known the pain Molly felt at revisiting that horrific moment in time. If only she had known that, rather than dispel the nightmares, it only made them worse. If only she had known that, for the first time in two months, Molly screamed herself awake and ended up smashing her fist against the nearest wall, hoping physical pain would override the mental.

If only…if only.

* * *

**A/N: **How was that, everybody? I hope it came out okay. Writing a therapy session was a bit of a challenge for me, as I've no idea how they actually work, but hopefully it comes across as pretty realistic. To those following my Twilight story, Not What it Seems, I promise it will be updated soon, I just have a bit of writer's block regarding it. Thank you for your patience and I swear that patience shall be rewarded soon.

Thanks for reading and I'll see you all soon :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: **Good golly gosh! I've had an incredible amount of follows just from the last update. Thank you all so much and thanks to those who left the loveliest reviews for me, too! Love to all :)

* * *

Chapter Five

The first half of Molly's shift ran slower than she could have ever imagined possible. What was usually a minor trial became an arduous chore and Joseph, who was hard to bear at the best of times, had turned into her greatest adversary. She knew it was probably the tiredness talking, but she would've loved nothing more than to rip his haughty head off and feed it to the pigeons. She reckoned even the flying rats of London would have rather eaten the litter on the streets, though.

The past week since her last therapy session had not been an easy one and she was tempted to simply cancel all future appointments with the psychiatrist. Sleep was even more elusive than usual, forcing her mood to nosedive and she'd even declined coffee with John because of it. She didn't want him of all people to be affected by the state she was currently in and, after little more than three hours' sleep a night over the past six days, Molly knew that if she didn't do something about the insomnia soon, she was in danger of having a serious relapse.

With the melancholy playing on her mind and a sigh heavier than a ship's anchor, Molly plonked her tray onto the counter and surveyed the food on offer in the canteen. Despite the growling of her stomach, which displayed its disapproval of having nothing to digest before midday, none of the food before her looked very appetising. She knew she'd have to force something down, however, so tried to determine which would be easier to consume.

Lost in her musings, Molly was unaware of the presence behind her, until an unmistakable baritone signalled its arrival.

"What are you thinking-pork or the pasta?"

She almost physically jumped in surprise, before turning her head to see Sherlock stood unusually close behind her. Human contact was never a strong point for Molly and he had always held a commanding-sometimes intimidating-presence, but a certain amount of space always remained between them. His current proximity immediately set her on edge and she could feel her body involuntarily retract, trying to force as much distance between them as it could, without bringing attention to itself. Adding to that was the fact that this was the very first time he had ever initiated an actual conversation with her. Normally, the only time words were thrown her way was in the form of a request and she didn't know if she had the energy to experience Sherlock's interpretation of the "banal chatter" he had reprimanded her and John for having a couple of days ago.

"This place is never going to trouble Egon Ronay, is it?" he remarked, as Molly wondered who the Hell Egon Ronay even was. "I'd stick with the pasta-don't want to be doing roast pork. Not if you're slicing up cadavers."

Molly was utterly gobsmacked and completely baffled. A part of her wondered if she was dreaming up the entire scenario, as, not only was he making small talk, but he _smiled _at her, too. Was her need for sleep that desperate? _Best not to cancel your therapy, Molls._

"Er...," she began, trying to buy some time for a reply. "Wh-what are you having?"

"Don't eat when I'm working," he declared. "Digesting slows me down."

"Oh, you're working here tonight?" She couldn't decide if that was a good thing or bad. If ever she was in danger of snapping back at whatever harsh remark might escape his lips, it was during extreme tiredness. Then again, she was reminded of Joseph's absence whenever Sherlock was around, so it was easy for the pros to outweigh any cons.

"I need to examine some bodies," he explained, either ignoring or unaware of how disconcerting his audience found his attempts at being uncharacteristically nice. "Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."

The names immediately rang a bell in Molly's memory and her eyes flitted down to the sheet of paper adorning her clipboard. As expected, the very two names Sherlock had just uttered were printed in bold black letters.

"Funny, they're on my list," she said, looking back up at him. "I did the post mortems."

"Could you wheel them out again for me?" he asked, the earnestness of his expression intensifying immensely. Any fleeting considerations she may have had for coincidence rapidly diminished.

"Well…the paperwork's already gone through," She replied, knowing his request would be frowned upon by her superiors and she was reluctant to lose her job on account of the consulting detective, even if he was the sole person to hold such a position. However, the very fact that the request came from him was the reason she felt so reluctant to refuse. A post mortem was never a dull or routine affair whenever Mr Sherlock Holmes was involved and she couldn't help wonder what marvels she might witness this time around.

Sensing the conflict within the woman before him, Sherlock's expression morphed once again, this time exuding a slightly boyish charm, as his gaze swept over her. Molly had to admit she found it a little disconcerting how chameleon-like his temperament could sometimes be. His eyes focused on the top of her head for a moment, before he began speaking again.

"You've changed your hair," he commented, pointing to the side swept chignon.

"W-what?" she blurted, surprised at the sudden shift in topic.

"The style," he elaborated. "It's usually parted in the middle."

Molly stared at him blankly, having no response to his remark. She was definitely too tired to deal with this. Her lips changed position, ready to voice some sort of reply, but he cut her off.

"It's good; suits you better this way."

Molly's eyes widened and she could feel her cheeks warming at the completely unexpected compliment, before a sudden surge of panic ran through her. Was he…_flirting_? Her thoughts immediately returned to the day she had tried to ask him out for coffee and she wondered if he really had misconstrued her intentions and this was his fumbling attempt at accepting her advances. If that was indeed the case, how on Earth did one react to such an event?

Before the dismay could increase, the slightly more awake compartment of her brain thought through the conversation they had just had and all worries quickly subsided. Yes, he was being friendly and complimentary, but he had also just requested something of her (as per usual), which she had possibly been about to refuse. He must have been desperate if he was resorting to flirtation in order to get his way, meaning he had to be on a case of some kind. She had to admit that she did enjoy watching him in the midst of his profession, although John's absence was duly noted. It had certainly become a rarity in recent times for Sherlock to enter the hospital without the company of his slightly shorter companion.

Sparing a last glance at the unappetising food, she discarded her tray and decided to acquiesce to Sherlock's request, signalling that he should follow her to the morgue. He kept up to her pace very easily, but, as expected, the moment his wish was granted, all small talk and niceties ceased. Oddly enough, the fact that Molly was being used didn't trouble the pathologist as much as it probably should have. Perhaps it was because she expected that sort of behaviour from the man, or maybe she had quickly realised that, to Sherlock, the rest of humanity really only had one purpose-to serve _him_. As far as she had seen, the only person to break the mould in the detective's regards was John.

As Molly started searching for the two bodies, another person entered the morgue. He was also a detective, albeit of a more conventional type. His name was Dimmock and, from the sudden arrogant shift in Sherlock's posture upon the DI's arrival, it was clear that Van Coon and Lukis were being used to prove some sort of point. Well, actually it turned out that their _feet _were the means of proof and she could only watch on in a mixture of confusion and awe, as a cryptic exchange passed between the two men, involving tattoo parlours and books.

From the expression on the DI's face, the point had most definitely been proven and the pair strolled out of the morgue, without either sparing a backward glance at the woman responsible for putting the bodies away again. Molly wasn't especially busy in that moment, given that it was actually her lunch hour, so, once Van Coon and Lukis were safely packed away again, she removed her gloves and dropped them in the pedal bin by the sink. Retrieving her phone from her lab coat pocket, she decided to send John a quick text.

**-Sherlock was here just now, looking at feet. Big case, is it?**

The reply didn't take very long.

**-Foot fetish ;)**

Molly giggled at John's response, the first bit of real humour she'd experienced in the past week and she suddenly regretted her decision of not seeing him a couple of days previously. Rather than repel him with her foul mood, he may have been just the thing to brighten it. Leaning against the counter, she continued the text conversation.

**-We all have our vices XD were you dispatched elsewhere?**

**-I'd like to say yes, but I was actually catching up on some sleep. Did you know he doesn't sleep during a case? **

**-Doesn't eat, either, apparently.**

**-I know. And they're the two things I love most! Bloody nutter.**

**-Aren't we all? :)**

**-Sadly, yes. How are you? Feeling better?**

Molly considered his question for a moment, wondering how truthful she should be. She certainly didn't want to be the downer on his day, especially if he was feeling exhausted. That was something she could certainly sympathise with.

**-A bit. Sorry about Tuesday.**

**-Don't be. When are you next free?**

**-Saturday, I think. You?**

**-As long as a serial killer doesn't wreak havoc on London, sounds good to me. Hopefully I'll have got some sleep by then.**

**-Best make it a couple of espressos, then :)**

**-Perfect. I'll let you know a time. X**

Molly and John said their goodbyes to one another and she plopped the device back into her pocket a final time, before leaving the morgue to finish the task she'd been about to start before lunch.

**0**

"A _hairpin_?"

"Yes. I was tied to a chair, gagged and almost shot over a bloody hairpin!"

Molly laughed out loud, despite the mild irritation clouding John's features. It was probably the most bizarre tale she had ever been told and, had she never met Sherlock, the young woman would have found it hard to believe. As it was, Molly had little trouble imagining Sherlock and him running around London in pursuit of Chinese smugglers.

"I'm surprised you haven't knocked him out yet," Molly commented, swirling the cream atop her drink with a spoon. "I mean, Sherlock seems to get the cases and credit, whilst you endure all the hardship."

"Probably why he split Wilkes' fee," John remarked. "Guilt money."

"Does he even feel such a thing?" Molly wondered, trying not to think of the strangeness of her last encounter with the baffling man.

"You'd be surprised," John replied. "He refused the money at first."

"Really?" Molly's eyes widened with surprise. John had revealed the full amount of money the banker had been willing to pay for Sherlock's services and, if put in their position, she couldn't have said her morality was high enough to have declined. "Blimey, he really does enjoy it, doesn't he?"

"Oh, yes!" John confirmed, gulping down the last of his coffee, before sliding his chair back and standing. "Back in a sec. Just gotta visit the gents'."

Molly nodded in understanding and, lifting her large mug for a swig of hot chocolate, watched him head to the rear of the little coffee shop, which was the location of their rendezvous. She was amazed at just how confident and sure his stride was nowadays in comparison to the previous sluggishness brought on by his heavy limp. His posture was far more self-assured, too and his entire manner held an element of…contentment. He'd only been living with Sherlock for a few weeks, but it seemed to have already had an extremely positive effect on the former army doctor. Despite having one of the most unsociable men in the country for a flatmate, John seemed immeasurably happier. She began to wonder if she should try living with a sociopath, too.

A tremor of fear ran along Molly's spine, as she wondered at the consequences of her friend's new found joy. Whilst she was happy for John, a part of her wondered if a divide would start to grow between them. After all, he was nearing the end of his road to recovery, whilst she was barely past the starting line and she didn't want to hold him back, but also feared losing one of the only people who had really helped her through the past few months. By no means a conscious action on his part, their regular meetings had offered a tether to the real world, as well as someone who truly understood her situation. There didn't appear to be any change in their interaction with one another so far, but there was no guarantee it wouldn't in the future. If Molly was truthful with herself, she was terrified of losing him, as it would leave her feeling utterly alone.

Although a little longer than a second, John was back soon enough and Molly, shrugging off the negative musings, watched him once again, as he strode towards their little table by the window. Settling in his seat once more, her study didn't go unnoticed and he glanced at her curiously. She forgot that, at times, he could be almost as perceptive as his flatmate.

"What?" he asked.

Molly placed her cup back on the table and plastered a smile on her face. "Well…I'm just thinking that Sherlock might not be the only one enjoying his work," she replied.

John lifted his brows, seeking elaboration on her statement.

"You seem happier," she explained. "More confident and your sessions with Ella have finished, so I'm assuming your PTSD is getting a lot better."

John shifted in his seat, getting more comfortable and considering the findings of her quick study. "I suppose I am," he eventually replied. "I mean, there's no walking stick anymore and living with someone like Sherlock means I'm never bored."

Molly's smile turned more genuine, as he confirmed her suspicions. She wondered if Sherlock had a brother or sister willing to take her in, as it'd done wonders for her friend. Then again, it probably wasn't the best idea, given her nocturnal habits. The screams were doing even_ her _head in. Before she could dwell on that particular subject any further, Molly changed topic.

"With Ella off your back now," she began. "What's happening with your blog?"

"Funny you should ask," he said. "Because I've actually started writing it."

A quiet chuckle escaped her lips. "You mean, now that you're not seeing Ella, you're actually going to start following her advice?"

His laughter mingled with hers. "I guess I am."

"What's it about-just your day-to-day goings on?"

"It was," he explained. "But now it's focused more on the cases we get."

"So, are you his official…" Molly searched for the most appropriate term to use. "…_partner _now?"

"In a way, I suppose." The expression on John's face made it clear he wasn't entirely sure himself what he was with regards to Sherlock. "At least, he seems to want me around for his cases, although I don't think I really offer that much, besides basic medical knowledge."

"Well, I'll admit I don't know him anywhere near as well as you, but he doesn't seem the type to tolerate a person's presence without a good reason. You must have something to offer."

"Hmm, maybe," he replied, his gaze growing far away.

Molly allowed him his moment of reflection, as she finished off her drink before it got too cold. Gentle taps on the window signalled the arrival of rain and she was eternally grateful to the large coat she had decided to bring with her. Unfortunately, John wasn't able to say the same. All he had was a hoodless jacket that was definitely not made for a damp, English spring. She studied the visible patch of sky peeking around the coffee shop's front canopy and the broken cloud meant the rain was falling in brief showers, rather than a torrential downpour.

A buzz and vibration against the table broke Molly's companion out of his retrospection. Picking up the phone in front of him, John read through the text he had just been sent and an incredulous frown furrowed his brow.

"What the Hell does he need _bleach_ for?" he queried aloud, before Molly could wonder what was wrong.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked, not really needing an answer.

"The one and only," John replied, sliding the phone into his jacket pocket, without responding to the message. "Dread to think what the flat might look like when I get back. And what kind of experiment involves household bleach? Actually, I'd rather not know."

Molly smiled and dropped her purse into her bag, as she sensed their meeting was coming to a close. John picked up the paper from the table, before moving from his chair and the pair thanked the waitress by the till, before exiting the shop. They stood underneath the canopy for a moment, waiting for the last of the current shower to pass and took the opportunity to say their goodbyes.

"We have to do this more regularly," he declared, pulling the zip up to his chin. "It's been, what, a month since we last met up?"

His statement pleased Molly more than she even realised at the time and she clamped the inside of her cheek between her teeth to keep a wide grin from spreading across her face. "We've seen each other at the hospital during that time," she reminded, although she regretted the words the moment they exited her mouth. She certainly didn't want him thinking she had no interest in meeting up regularly.

"True," he agreed. "But it's difficult to relax with a certain arrogant twat around." Although the moniker sounded harsh, it was said with a lopsided grin and a wink. "And, ironically, afternoons with you provide the sanity I don't get around Sherlock."

Molly couldn't help but laugh in astonishment at his remark. It had been a _long_ time since anyone called her "sane". And it was in comparison to Sherlock, so what did that say about the consulting detective? He, however, had never been sectioned, even though he was far from what anyone would call normal, so it seemed that sanity was a relative concept. If only Molly's doctors and psychiatrist shared John's view. If only _Molly _shared John's view of herself.

The doctor was watching the sky, waiting for the patch of blue to fly over their heads, when he turned back to her. "Right then," he said. "Apparently, I'm off to buy some bleach and then I'm going home. If I live after today, I'll see you soon. No doubt a visit to the morgue is scheduled sometime this week."

Molly giggled. "Well, my bedsit has a spare floor if you find your flat no longer has any."

"I'll bear that in mind," he smiled in return. "See you later."

With a quick squeeze of her arm, John lifted the collar of his jacket to stave off the damp air and walked away in his typically brisk, militaristic fashion. Molly watched his retreating form for a while, before beginning a stroll in the opposite direction. The rain was kept at bay for the entirety of her walk to the tube. Unfortunately, upon reaching her stop, it made a vigorous reappearance and softly collided with her face, as she climbed the steps leading onto the street. The second shower was shorter, but much heavier than the first and, despite running most of the way, she was still impressively drenched by the time she reached her small block of flats.

Chucking her bag on the floor beside the front door and hanging her coat on the back of the chair by the window to dry, the pathologist kicked off her shoes and began rifling through her drawers for more slobbish clothing. Pulling out the hair band that secured her locks in a tight ponytail, Molly ran her fingers along her scalp to soothe the tingles that always came after having her hair up.

The next item on the agenda was to turn on the heating for a little while in order to warm the bedsit. London's temperature rose steadily with each passing week, but it was still cold enough for humans to require a little help with regulating their body temperatures. Hot cups of tea were also a great help with that.

After her coffee shop outing, Molly had been provided with a little task for the evening and she looked around for her laptop, which was lying innocently on the end of her bed. After opening the lid and firing it up, she headed for the kettle. After a couple of minutes, armed with dressing gown and mug of tea, she reclined on the sofa and clicked on the Internet Explorer icon, before typing into the Google search bar. John Watson's blog was the first result listed and she selected it, ready to see firsthand the product of his former therapist's recommendation.

It was pretty simple to look at and very easy to navigate, of which Molly highly approved. Substance over style; it was an ideal that definitely fit John. There were only a small number of entries so far and, although the first few of those were very brief, she opened and read each one. Pointless was a particularly sad read, even though it was only four words long and someone named Bill Murray had decided to comment.

It wasn't until the fifth entry that John began to actually start detailing the events of his day, even though it was a rather unremarkable one and she could still sense the apathetic attitude behind the words. He simply wasn't interested and didn't feel the need to put the effort in, no matter how often Ella Thompson assured him it would help.

The attitude completely changed by the time she reached A Strange Meeting. It was obviously the day he first met Sherlock and, although hesitant at first, his writing soon took on a wealth of vigour and life that all the previous entries lacked. It was because _something_ had _happened_. That was the big difference between John and her. She craved silence and nothingness, yet he thrived on excitement, noise and…_somethings_. She read on and began to become engrossed in his accounts.

By the time she reached A Study in Pink, she was hooked. Of course, the young woman had glimpsed the methods of Sherlock Holmes from time to time, but to read the progressing of a case from start to finish was altogether something else. She shared her friend's wonder at the bizarre man's deductive skills and her half empty cup of tea was neglected on the floor by her feet, as she continued to read.

Molly was halfway through an argument between the two flatmates, in the comments section of a later post, when she suddenly froze. A wave of memory washed over her, bringing with it a rush of images and sensation, as her mind relived the last few moments of her afternoon with John. The recollection of something extraordinary hit her. He'd touched her. John had actually touched her. He'd held her arm-if only for a second-and applied a careful amount of pressure, before releasing it and walking away.

And Molly hadn't even flinched.

In fact, she hadn't even noticed until hours later. It was a spur of the moment action on his part and it all happened so quickly that she had failed to realise. She felt…she felt…well, she didn't really know how she felt. She was confused, definitely and surprised, but her reaction was far more complex than two emotions could express. Questions ran through her mind, but the biggest of all was: what did it mean?

Doctor Thompson was well aware of Molly's dislike for physical contact, but the young woman couldn't decide whether she should disclose the recent revelation during their next session or not. It was possible to spend the rest of the night simply going round in circles thinking about it and she suddenly felt a little ridiculous putting so much thought into such a little thing. People touched all the bloody time, so why should it be such a momentous thing for her? It was another reminder of why Molly Hooper was not normal.

Deciding that she was far too overwhelmed and lacking in sleep to really think about it any further, she turned her attention back to the screen of the laptop and continued reading. She wanted to discover if Sherlock really had blown up John's cans of beer.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm not entirely sure about the pacing of this chapter. I think it's alright, but worry that it might be a little bit rushed. Let me know what you think :)


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